Ode to the Dichromatic Lotus Moth (or Bird)
resting now the butterfly its faint-cherry wings,
dyed the waning blue blush of sad, dead lips,
nestles among the green lawn in a bitter and cold nest of dusty thistles
and relents; she forever dreams and dreams
the scent and taste of the thistles’ sweet milk,
in a world of most soothing and untamable tinted with grey,
and in grey always she sleeps and weeps
through the darksome and invisible, the sleepless nights, yet
only if Time, only if all Time has passed
so in even sweeter and scented, more verdant Oblivion that transforms into gilded jade
She would forget,
of all the spry wonders and bliss once he knew in her dream’s of the grey,
the grey’s vivid hues and its ardent eyes looking back
to another dream of pure blackness like unto ashen soot or unto an old blind monk’s writing ink
She turned, dripping ebony lymph from her heart
through the nodes and veins, busted forth
to the broken tip of the edge of its dusky wings,
the sinister and hallucinatory absinthe
venom or gift borne from many a living deaths
and dead living things,
from dimmed and faded yellow pollen or sap
or sweetly decaying flesh grown glowingly golden brown
she had from it hence taken,
kept and harboured it — —
its honey along with its comb in the inmost tomb
of her troubled heart, brewing and fermenting it
in immortal longings or mortal distress,
across thousands and one nights’ fancies and sleep
and then in ripe age entrusted it in resignation too
to the burning, brilliant golden eyes opened upon her iridescent wings with which she flaps.
Her drunken solar eyes beam unto her small and pretty, somnolescent wings
like pride regally purple and prickly just
with majestically aureate florescence blooming
unto a magnificent peacock’s vanity’s train
— — piercing the shy and prudish reserve
of some biting and austere grass or moss
in their gloomily lush and moulding sleep or dream
Once in melancholic and scent-scattering spiring,
now in blissful and mothering winter and to it alike
Above and over the lawn of nights and hours,
she flutters and plays in whimsome serenity,
(maybe some faerie lute to some goblin notes)
next to a fresh spring, or a small and meadowy ocean
and with sprightly pleasure, says
“No longer I am a wanton and happy creature of day,
The butterfly who once drunk carelessly without a clue from the nectar
of blooming spring flowers bedighted with life’s full enigmatic palette of colours
and from the sap of ever ever green tall and leafy trees reaching the heavens
but she died in solitude in the heat of a bright and tempestuous stormy midsummer afternoon,
Her form eternally shattered and ruined with neither ever forgivable nor forgettable torment
by the always truthful and joyless cloudless blue sky of the Emperor’s Weather (Kaiserswetter),
Her colours scattered to the departing breezes of Autumn’s Northerly Wind that came once and many times before in last year or many years ago,
and now only the echoes of her name and memories of her scent remain in the snow-ridden wintry field.
Where the winds had long gone South.
I have been revived — — and transfigured into a moth — — who should always sleep during the day
and awake during the night — — and does not know the sorrow or labour
that begins from the hour of the rising sun to the falling moon,
in a day
as throughout the night there is only eternal meditation
and even more sombre and joyless work
of both life- and death-denying creation, in a more sober kind of intoxication
with all-piercing, drunk and solar eyes I oft gaze
at the unknown and unknowable black chasm of the abyss inside myself that rejects all seeing and hearing,
and mete out I its profound depths and width of its singular Truth,
through ingenious employ of briskly swift palpation upon it
like touching the pale and eerie moon reflected on the surface of water
with an extending hand quickly withdrawn, from the chill, or mostly,
from inhaling its sickly sweet and nauseating odour, which I then fain
that as a moth I had become, could I flutter
into that bottomless pit, and con: that there hides a cavernous ravine underneath
burthened with the weight of the entire Earth
whose murmurously flowing rivulets and rills would in another season
“connects to some sunless seas” of an even deeper and more gruesome ocean
Tipsy with most lethal and occult scents
from the antediluvian herbs and plants, giant trees, and non-fruit-bearing flowers
that grew, fell and died in that cool and sunless grotto — never seeing the light of Sun nor Moon
from their innards flow their blackest and most inebriating juice — -and billowingly rise from it
the crapulent and crimson vapors fantastic that captivates and transports one once more
to yet another aeonless dream forgotten
far and distant from places whether they are above or below the earth,
perhaps another cavernous heaven untreaded and unnamed by human imagination.
And so — as a foolish moth seeking for eternal fire of the Sun
at eternal night or twilight
I will thus return to that illimitable and shadowy expanses
beneath the Earth enow
For all infinity,
Like a broken shooting-moon quietly and burnishingly burning
that fell from the upmost empyrean of all heavens
A gigantic torch that was lit and thrown
To the endlessly lightless and dreamless, (dark and subterrain)
unfathomably profound
solemn deep valley of even more unimaginably stiller and more dead and deadly death,
Where I will find the figments with forgotten colours
of all my past fits and figmentations
broken,
scented pieces too mixed and combined
with fleetingly malevolent and daemoniacal nightmares when I was powerless held in my mother’s bosom
and oft through sultry spiring or summer nights the spry and wet puerile fancies too young and innocent
All flattened and kneaded by the delicate and agile hands with immovable iron-sinewed arms incognizant and unacknowledged
of once a Giant that lived in that vast, incorrigible wilderness in exile
from both the fantastical city-nations and its tribes of the Sun and the Moon
In total blindness and deafness of his solitude he tore and rejoin
all that were wondrous and beautiful that once flew from the heart of all my hearts
dreamt up and then lost and forgotten in his never-fading and everlasting memories by the dreamer
that was neither the Moth nor I that was dreaming
of such sweet and tender things,
and humming or singing a lovesong to all other dreamers
with such freedom and such passion
even as he was chained in lone and cavernous dream with no exit
yet it is also dreamt up within another dream
of mine about how malicious and evil the cold is
for one who tries to live through the winter with neither friend nor wisdom
and of how spine-chilling the all-encompassing mass murder
hidden among the happy tides going so soothingly to and fro
among a silent, black and drowsy ocean.

(— — that secretly engulfs and eventually would wholly swallow)
the green, fruit-bearing grooves and the verdant grazeable meadow-land
that was Man’s true home and eternal source of Man’s soul.)

Inspiration:
arrangements of the score "dichromatic lotus butterfly" from touhou,
(the (dichrome or two colours) being red and white worn by Japanese mikos or female shamans (for celebrating both the joy and sorrow of life) in both weddings and funerals.
short piano arrange: https://youtu.be/HXVS28-NHTs
electronic arrange:https://youtu.be/BWunTlg83lc https://youtu.be/3bS0Y2if3wU ,
vocal arrange: 【東方ニコカラ】BICHROME【On_Vocal】 — ニコニコ動画 (nicovideo.jp)

a doujinshi I read about a man dying and with the last of his strength he joins in nuptial bond with his lover. then when he dies he turning into a butterfly and enters the bosom of the woman he loves and his spirit and hers live together happily ever after,

the concept of Venus Butterfly (wiki, nsfw),

black and white is also the motif of yin-yang orb in taoism which symbolises the inevitability of change and destruction within all things and the universal tragedy of life and death.

The idea of Venus being a butterfly----I mixed up Zhuangzhi and Venus / Aphrodite legend. Moth's cocoon is likened to the foam on the ocean.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:WLANL_-_artanonymous_-_Nachtpauwoog.jpg (Van Gogh’s Green Peakcock Moth).